


Sentinels

by Muriel_Perun



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, Vulcan Mind Melds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/pseuds/Muriel_Perun
Summary: Time after time, Jim Kirk has fallen for the wrong woman, and Spock has been there to pick up the pieces. How long can this go on? A sequel to “A Requiem for Methuselah.”





	Sentinels

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally published in the 2017 KiScon con zine. 
> 
> Thanks to Catalenamara for a helpful beta.

“Spock,” Kirk said dully, not meeting his eyes. He sat at the desk, hands folded, eyes focused on nothing at all.

“The epidemic is reduced and no longer a threat. The Enterprise is on course 513 mark 7, as you ordered.” Standing at parade rest in Captain Kirk’s quarters, Spock delivered his report.

“An old and lonely man and a young and lonely man. We put on a pretty poor show.”

Expressionless, Spock heard Kirk’s sigh, observed his ravaged face, but his discipline held. It was imperative that he maintain strict control so that he could help his captain, his friend. 

And then a hoarse whisper: “If only I could forget.” Kirk’s head pitched forward onto his folded hands and, improbably, he slept, his breath a barely vocalized cry of pain. 

Spock understood. Kirk was asking for his help again. Preparing to step forward, he stopped as the door slid open behind him to admit McCoy. Spock gestured to subdue the doctor’s ebullient personality so that Kirk’s fragile sleep might last.

The doctor delivered his regrettable news: “Flint is dying.” What a waste of a brilliant mind. Spock was not at all sure that McCoy appreciated the magnitude of that loss to science, to culture. Spock’s inquisitive mind regretted the missed opportunity to become more deeply acquainted with Flint, to study his genius, to speak with him about history, music, robotics, and a hundred other subjects. But he had lost that opportunity—not to time or disease, but to sexual jealousy and desire. 

How strange, and how ironic, that at the end of his life, the man who had lived as Leonardo, Brahms, and a multitude of others, had turned his considerable abilities towards creating a companion worthy of him. But Rayna, like so many other exceptional beings, had been seized by love for Captain James T. Kirk, and it had destroyed her. 

Some called Kirk a heartbreaker. Spock had often heard the offensive adage “love them and leave them” applied to his captain. But Spock knew better—only he knew the depth of Kirk’s feelings.

At his side, McCoy sighed dramatically. “Considering his rival’s longevity,” he mused, “truly an eternal triangle.” Not having anything to reply, Spock nodded briefly to indicate that he had heard. “You wouldn’t understand that would you, Spock?” McCoy continued rhetorically.

And, from there, as he often did, McCoy leapt into a lecture on the superiority of human beings. In his eyes, the emotional chaos created by love became a desirable trait, a spur to creativity and human endeavor. In truth, Spock thought it a specious argument, easily defeated with a few choice words. But he said nothing, because McCoy’s purpose was not to persuade. He meant the words to wound, to draw a visible reaction from Spock, to show that logic was a false principal, that displays of unbridled passion were superior to emotional control.

As if Flint and Kirk together had not thoroughly proven the fallacy of that premise.

“I feel sorrier for you than I do for him. Because you’ll never know the things love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures, the glorious victories. All of these things you’ll never know, simply because the world love isn’t written into your book.”

Little did McCoy know how well Spock understood those things. And he must never know.

The door slid closed behind McCoy. Kirk slept on, his breathing regular, a thread of sound against the engines’ low hum. Still Spock stood, gathering his forces, his mental shields. Silent as a cat, he stepped up to Kirk, put out a cautious hand, stopping just short of touch. He stood motionless, barely breathing, his hand basking in the warmth of Kirk’s body. Touch, tentative fingertips against the damp brow. Touch, tendrils of thought, mind to mind. Intimate, and yet…

In the telepathic discipline Spock had learned, every meld possessed a geography, every individual offered a vast, unique world, spread out before him. In every individual lay the possibility of losing oneself, of wandering forever in a pathless, alien world. When Spock had been initiated into these techniques, this is what he learned: Examine the shape of the mind you touch. Find its landmarks and memorize them. Follow the folds of the land, follow the paths. Where there are no paths do not break through, but go around. Do no violence, do no harm. Leave no trace.

Spock had touched many minds, many landscapes. Dr. Van Gelder: a tidy Dutch garden, brightened by tulips, overrun by brambles. Sarek: Spock’s childhood home—a quiet, orderly sanctuary, designed for contemplation. The Horta: tunnels through solid rock, each one precisely sculpted to communicate, through touch alone, the intentions of the builder. Jim Kirk: a fortified gateway, sealed and guarded. Beyond it lay a green and fertile but forbidden world, longed for, but never clearly seen—all the riches of Kirk’s being that Spock had never touched. 

The meld took hold gently, tentatively. Sentinels rose in Spock’s mind, sentinels that he had created to school himself in the impossibility of his desires. One by one they stepped forward, the women Jim Kirk had loved.

Helen Noel, Kirk’s first love after Spock and Kirk had begun to serve together on the Enterprise. She was the least worthy of all, with her stratagem to use the Tantalus machine to make Kirk believe he loved her. She had toyed with things beyond her control, and Dr. Adams had taken her nearly harmless suggestion of a romantic encounter and created a full-blown obsession in Kirk’s consciousness. Removing that suggestion had cost Spock dearly, giving deeply of himself while holding strict control over his unworthy feelings—unworthy, because to desire one who did not desire you was illogical. 

Dr. Noel had forced her way into Kirk’s mind, changed him to her will. How easy it would have been for Spock to do the same, to push in, twist and force what he found there, manipulating friendship and regard into something more, breaking loyalty and trust to convince Kirk they should be together and then capture one night of bliss before the effect wore off and Kirk realized the horror of what Spock had done. Spock was no rapist. But the thought had crossed his mind, to be rejected in horror.

After that first time, when Spock realized that Kirk had not sensed anything of his feelings, he was relieved that his controls had held. He thought he would never have to meld with Kirk again.

How many times had he done it since?

Edith Keeler, perhaps the worthiest of Kirk’s women—a visionary, and a compassionate soul. But because she could not know the effect that peace would have had on the world order, her death had clearly been necessary. There was no other way to keep the world as it was, to preserve the future he and Kirk belonged to. But, although Spock knew his logic was impeccable, guilt tormented him—the worry that, in convincing Jim that Edith had to die, Spock was also serving his own unrequited desire. 

Afterwards, on the ship, in this very cabin, Kirk had asked, had begged, for help. “In my head I see her dying, over and over.” Spock still heard that wretched whisper echoing through his memory. “Please, Spock, isn’t there anything you can do? Can’t you meld with me, take away the pain, make it stop hurting so much? How can I command the ship when I can’t think?”

So Kirk had lain on the bed with Spock sitting beside him, reaching out his hands and saying the ritual words. “My mind to your mind….” Kirk never knew what it cost Spock to soothe away those thoughts and feelings, while hiding his own longing behind a carefully constructed wall. 

“You’re a good friend,” Kirk had murmured as he fell into healing sleep. “Spock, you’re a very good friend.” Spock had retreated to his own cabin to heal his ravaged defenses with those words reverberating through his mind. A good friend…a very good friend….

Then Elaan of Troylius, with her pheromone tears and her warlike ambitions. Which had she wanted more, Kirk or the Enterprise? Strangely, being thwarted in love had made her a better person, but she left destruction in her wake. Spock had led McCoy to believe that Kirk’s care for the Enterprise had counteracted the tears, but the other factor he had not revealed. 

And how could Spock hold back his aid when Kirk lost Miramanee and their unborn child? That was the first time Kirk neglected to thank him once the meld was done. They both knew it had become a habit and should not happen again, but neither could resist. They never spoke of it, but whenever Kirk lost his heart in another failed romance, Spock was there to soothe the pain. 

Now Rayna, a stately shadow, took her place in their ranks, guarding the entrance to Kirk's deeper mind, reminding Spock of all the reasons that he would never have what he desired. There they stood at the gate, somber as statues, before they turned to stone. Now he could begin.

Slowly, Spock adjusted his grip against Kirk’s cheek and forehead, felt the clammy skin against his fingertips. With his physical senses, he drank in the sight, smell, sound of the man he desired. Behind his eyes, stripped from his physical self, he walked up to the gate. Stone sentinels rose, ghostly, in his mind. “Forget,” he whispered.

***

Spock arrived at Kirk’s door at precisely 1900 hours. He had been invited for dinner with the Captain, a common enough occurrence. He expected that, as usual, they would discuss ship’s business, then eat—still talking—and, when their business was concluded, Spock would excuse himself and return to his quarters for the night, where he would meditate and finally retire. Spending a few hours in Jim’s company, at the center of his attention, was welcome, for it temporarily diminished the longing that remained with him always.

The door slid open at his summons. Two covered dishes sat on the table awaiting them. Kirk greeted him, smiling his brilliant smile that made the object of it feel like the only other person in the universe.

“Right on time, as always,” Kirk said teasingly. “Have you ever been late in your life?” Spock was happy to see that Kirk had regained his vigor just a month after the incident with Flint. 

They sat at the table and began to speak of some personnel issues that had disrupted night shift on the bridge for the last few weeks: an illness, a pregnancy, a crewman who had been insubordinate to Sulu. None of these was serious, and there were various solutions that could be tried. Spock suggested several, and then added, “I could take an extra shift myself so that we would not have too many schedule changes to make.” 

Kirk had accepted this as a solution several times before, but this time he glanced strangely at Spock and quickly said, “No.” The captain looked discomfited, as if he hadn’t meant to speak so quickly. At Spock’s quizzical look, he continued defensively, “There’s no reason for you to take a night shift. You might have other things to do.”

This so startled Spock that he hesitated a few seconds before replying, and by the time he had formulated what to say, Kirk had handed him a plate of food, and so Spock let his argument go. Perhaps he would find out Kirk’s rationale later. The captain rarely did anything without a reason.

They ate companionably. Kirk had ordered them both a simple dish, and yet one that he must have known would appeal to his first officer: a salad composed of fresh provisions that had recently been taken aboard from a hydroponic station. There were times when Spock nearly forgot what fresh, unreplicated greens and vegetables tasted like. 

“Thank you, Captain, for a most enjoyable meal,” Spock commented when they had both finished.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Kirk replied, but his eyes had gone strange again, as if he were distracted by some thought.

“Shall we discuss the new orders that came through this morning?” Spock asked, hoping to pull Kirk’s attention back to the conversation.

“No, Spock,” Kirk said again, “not that. Not now.” He looked as if he were making up his mind about something, making some choice. Spock waited, suddenly uneasy, and immediately reprimanded himself. If Kirk had something to say, he would say it. There was no need to be excessively emotional. 

Kirk started to rise, and Spock rose with him. “No,” Kirk said for the third time. “Stay. I…I need to get something.” He went into the bedroom and returned with a bottle and two tiny glasses. Spock recognized the bottle immediately.

“When he saw McCoy again, Flint sent me a gift of his 100-year-old Saurian brandy,” Kirk said, pouring it out. “Will you join me?”

Spock nodded once. He had not expected to hear that name from Kirk’s lips ever again. “Does today present an occasion for celebration?” he asked cautiously. He had learned that humans celebrated many seemingly insignificant milestones with rituals centered around alcoholic drinks. He still did not know most of them.

Kirk chuckled softly. “Not really. Perhaps. I need to talk to you about something, and I thought this would be a good way to begin.”

Now Spock allowed the unease a certain reign, since it seemed there was a logical reason to anticipate something unusual, though he did not allow the emotion to fill him. 

Each man sipped his brandy in silence before Kirk took a breath. “A month ago, when you melded with me, after….” He paused. “I saw something.”

“Do you mean that you saw me in your quarters?” Spock asked, puzzled.

“I saw something…in your mind.”

“No.” Spock only knew he had spoken because he heard his own voice. He immediately brought up his defenses, banishing all emotion from his mind and demeanor. “What did you see?” he asked calmly.

“A place,” Kirk said, and Spock could tell he was still confused by it. “I was in the countryside. It was green, like Ireland. And I saw a gate.”

“The mind-meld discipline I learned uses imagined landscapes to help the participants remain oriented, even when they are joined,” Spock began. He must have sounded pedantic, because Kirk made an impatient sound.

“I saw a gate,” Kirk repeated.

“That is because I did not do a deep meld. I kept—I always keep—a barrier there so that I do not inadvertently invade your privacy. So, what you saw was…”

“I saw you through the gate,” Kirk interrupted, “but where you were, it was desert. I’m sure you were on Vulcan.”

“What else did you see?” Spock asked, fascinated now in spite of himself, now that he knew that they had remained safely on opposite sides of the barrier during the meld. “Have you ever seen these things before?”

“No. Well, only vaguely. This was clear. And there were stone figures—women. They were gorgons.”

“Gorgons?” Spock asked, surprised.

“Mythological figures that had snakes for hair. According to the myth, if you saw their faces you’d turn to stone. They had their backs to me. But you were facing them. I was worried, and I reached out, calling to you, but…” He took a shaky breath. Spock suddenly realized just how emotionally affected Kirk was by what he had seen in the meld.

“But what?” Spock prompted softly.

“But you turned away.” Kirk sounded forlorn, disappointed. “You turned and walked into a garden. I looked at it through the gate, but I couldn’t get in. It was beautiful. It had a fountain, and, even though it was on Vulcan, it had a grape arbor, and a small tree filled with ripe pears. There were others plants from earth, and some that could only have come from Vulcan.”

“My mother’s garden,” Spock murmured. “You saw that?”

“Is that were you were? In the meld?”

Spock shook his head. “No, but that is not surprising. People can see different things even in the same meld. We each create a landscape that feels familiar or that helps us stay oriented. The surprising thing is that you saw a garden you had never truly seen before, that you could only have seen in my mind. Captain, I apologize for what you experienced. Apparently, I did not raise sufficient barriers. Next time—if there is a next time—I shall certainly be more careful.”

But Kirk was looking at him strangely again, as he had before. “You don’t understand. While I was there, behind the gate, I had this feeling I’ve often had before. I felt as if I had been looking for someone, searching all my life. And then I saw you. I realized that, after every failure, I always come back to you. And I reached out because you were the one I wanted, the one I—” Spock watched him impassively, not moving a muscle. Their eyes met and held. Kirk broke off suddenly. “No,” he said, “I’m just letting my imagination run away with me. Forgive me, Spock. It’s getting late.” He rose from the table.

Spock remained where he was, shocked to the core of his being. “Jim,” he said, “I believe that I have made a serious error of judgment.”

“What?” Kirk asked, confused. “What error?”

Spock stood slowly and met his eyes. “I believe that, during our melds, I must have contaminated your mind.”

Kirk looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Contaminated my mind? Spock, what are you talking about?”

Spock’s defenses were all on alert, and every fiber of his being revolted against saying what he was about to say. But he owed this man honesty. “I believe I may have inadvertently communicated some of my...feelings to you.”

“Are you saying....” Kirk paused, then started again. “Are you saying that you have feelings for me?”

“Yes.” Despite all, Spock kept his voice steady.

Kirk came around the table to face him, taking Spock’s shoulders into his hands. At that touch, at that closeness, Spock nearly cried out, but his discipline held. “And I have feelings for you,” Kirk said, looking into Spock’s face. “I’m getting the idea that you see a problem with that.” He hesitated again. “Does it have something to do with what I saw on Vulcan? With the bond? With pon farr? I don’t even know if Vulcans have sex outside of marriage, if same-sex relationships are common, if you have sex more than once every seven years.” After several seconds of silence, he breathed out hard in frustration. “Spock, would you say something?”

“I never meant for you to see those things,” Spock said, resisting the urge to close his eyes. “I never meant to risk your life.”

“I don’t care about that,” Kirk said distinctly. “I’ve put it behind me. Would you answer my questions?”

“My bond with T’Pring was broken the instant I thought I’d killed you.” Spock heard his own voice, almost a monotone, devoid of emotion. “Vulcans can have sexual relations at any time, not just during pon farr. Relationships outside of marriage and between persons of the same sex were not formerly common in Vulcan society, but are more acceptable now.”

“How long have you had feelings for me?” Kirk asked. “Just since your bond with her ended?”

Kirk’s hands caressed Spock’s shoulders, sending him into an agony of longing. He had to get out of here, but first, knowing that these were possibly the last moments he could spend alone in the captain’s presence, he had to tell Jim everything, to make him understand.

“I already cared for you then, although the bond with T’Pring compelled me to return and complete our marriage,” Spock went on. “T’Pau must have seen it in my mind. That was why she allowed T'Pring’s outrageous demand that you stand as her champion. That was why she wanted you dead.” Afterward, when he had seen Jim alive and well, his guard had dropped, and anyone with the power to sense thoughts would have felt his love for Kirk flowing from his mind like water from a spring. For Spock, that day had compounded shame upon shame: the broken bond, the combat with Kirk, the admission to himself that his unrequited love could overcome his defenses. And now he had to recognize that, without consciously intending it, he had influenced Kirk’s emotions, and in doing so had broken the most fundamental tenets he lived by. 

“Spock,” Kirk said, searching his face, “none of that was your fault. It all ended well, thanks to McCoy, and—”

“The fact remains that, without meaning to, I have made you desire me. I take full responsibility. If you will let me meld with you briefly one last time, I believe I can undo whatever damage I—”

Kirk’s eyes flashed with anger, as his grip on Spock’s arms tightened. “What damage? Are you telling me that my feelings aren’t real? That I don’t really care for you?”

“They are an illusion. With time, if I touch your mind once more, and then we have no further mental contact, they will fade.” The temptation to give into this feeling, to believe that Kirk, of his own free will, desired him—Spock had known no greater torment in his life.

“How can you say that? You know me. Do you really think my will is that weak?” Kirk’s jaw was set, his eyes hard with determination. “You think you could influence me that easily? Just because I saw a garden in your mind?”

Spock pointed out the obvious. “I have helped you to heal from several painful associations, so I clearly do have the power to influence your emotions. Let me touch your mind once more,” he continued, “and I will—”

“You’ll take away these feelings, heal me from what I feel for you?” Kirk asked angrily. “What if the feelings are real?”

“If they were real, I would not be able to take them away, merely to attenuate them temporarily.”

Kirk let go of Spock’s arms. Grabbing a chair, he moved it brusquely to the other side of the table and thumped it down, facing the second chair. “Be my guest,” he said, sitting. “Try it.” He looked at Spock with a challenge in his eyes.

Spock sat slowly, gathering his scattered focus, preparing for a superficial meld like the others he and Kirk had shared. First, he had to check the barrier. There must be some leak. How could Kirk see through it, see Spock in his mother’s garden? And, more puzzling still, how had Kirk seen an image of that garden in these melds without Spock being conscious of it?

He kept his hand from shaking as he brought it to Kirk’s face, placing his fingers around the temple, the cheekbone, as he had so many times before. The contact was almost immediate, and it took his breath away. Kirk’s mind was reaching out for his. But that was not possible, not—

And then he saw them—the gate, the stone figures, just as he had left them. The barrier seemed strong, almost impenetrable, save for the small opening he needed to plant the needed suggestions in Kirk’s mind: sleep, let go, forget. Allowing himself to look closer, he saw the inviting green country on the other side, just as Kirk had described it. And there Kirk stood, waiting for Spock, looking through the barred gate, his hand extended.

“Spock,” Kirk said, and Spock heard it in the meld and in the room where his physical body stood. It was as if they were in both places at once—separate, in their physical bodies, and not quite joined in the meld. He could feel Kirk’s will through the barrier, pushing at it, trying to reach him.

“I don’t understand this,” he whispered, echoing himself. “You should not be able to reach me through the barrier.”

Kirk smiled. “Sometimes it’s all right not to understand something, isn’t it?”

Spock turned in the meld and saw his mother’s garden behind him—the fountain, the pear trees, the brilliant red Vulcan cacti—and, beyond them, the house his father had built. In the meld, Spock had seen himself walking to the gate directly from the house—his father’s ordered space—but Kirk had seen him in the half-orderly, half-wild amalgam of his mother’s garden. Why had Kirk seen the garden in Spock’s mind while Spock had not? 

“I wish to understand,” Spock said simply. “Trying to understand is my way of being in the universe.” In the meld, he met Kirk’s eyes. Kirk nodded once. He seemed closer now, although Spock had not consciously willed it. “What do you see?” Spock asked.

“This gate. The gorgons. You in the garden, and a low house. Mountains in the distance. They’re purple, and the sand is red. The Vulcan sky is so bright it burns my eyes, just like before.”

“I see the garden now,” Spock said, “although it was not there before. Somehow, you have made me see it.” He glanced up at the statues. “When I look at them, they are not gorgons.”

“Who are they, then?” Kirk asked. Spock was silent, thinking what to say. But Kirk’s eyes suddenly widened in realization. “They’re the women, aren’t they? The women I’ve loved.”

“Yes.”

“You made them into guards.” In the meld Kirk smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Spock. I have a history of leaping into things, and I’ve been dragging you in behind me. I took advantage of you. Of course you made them monsters.”

It was true, but Spock didn’t acknowledge it. “I must locate the damage I have done and repair it, if I can,” he said. “Please, Captain, do not speak further while I attempt this.” He did not understand where the damage could be. Kirk’s will was so strong that all Spock’s attention now turned to strengthening the barrier. If his desire were not voluntary, could his will exert such pressure on Spock’s defenses?

In the meld Spock suddenly found himself just before the gate, facing Kirk through the bars. “No,” he said, “I must retreat if I am to—”

Under his fingers, he felt Kirk’s head move, and by the time he realized what was happening, their lips were pressed together. Jim’s lips, his mouth—strong and sensual, greedy. In the meld, the gate between them groaned open, and from the gap poured a wave of emotion like nothing Spock had ever felt. Love, desire, impatience, curiosity, and all the restless energy that made up James T. Kirk. This was no pale reflection of Spock’s desire, but human feeling, in all its messy intensity. Jim loved him. That was a fact. It would be illogical to hold back now, to deny them both any longer. One by one, the sentinels crumbled to dust. Spock took Jim’s face between his hands and kissed him back.

The visual part of the meld had disappeared now that Spock no longer consciously maintained it, but as they kissed he felt bathed in a sea of feelings, some his own, others from Kirk. He no longed cared to distinguish them. He gave himself up.

From the chairs, they moved to the bedroom, hardly able to let go of each other long enough to undress. He allowed Jim to pull off his boots, his clothes, and then he did the same for Jim. At the moment when they lay together on the bed, skin to skin, Spock felt his loneliness slip away, as if a hollow at the center of his being had finally been filled.

Jim’s kisses were like fire, leaving trails of sensation from Spock’s lips, across his face, down his throat, arms, and chest. To be this close to the man he had loved for so long seemed almost unbearable. This overwhelming increase in sensory data brought on an unaccustomed onslaught of emotion that Spock did not even attempt to control. Jim’s scent, the feel of his skin, his hair, the way he used his hands and lips and tongue to ply Spock’s body—Spock could never have imagined how exhilarated he could feel to be here, doing this, if he had ever let himself imagine. Never had he known what a powerful sway this love had over his whole being.

“I’ve never made love with a man before,” Jim murmured, “so you have to tell me what you like. Tell me how I can pleasure you better.”

“I cannot think of a way to better this,” Spock said hoarsely. He reached for the center of Jim’s heat, held it in his hand, the carnal act of touching and giving pleasure so intimate he dissolved in it. And Jim touched him, held him, as they moved with each other to a moment of blinding release.

They lay together, cooling down, returning to themselves. It was still early evening—hours remained before the morning shift began, and Spock coveted every hour left to this night.

Spock lay on his back, enjoying the waves of contentment still flowing through his body, while, leaning on one elbow, Jim explored Spock’s chest with his eyes, hands, and lips. Spock knew it would not be long until he was aroused again.

“I believe I know why this happened,” he said, cupping Jim’s face with one hand. “We must have compatible minds. I have never experienced a mind like yours.”

“What does that mean?” Jim asked, not ceasing his attention to Spock’s skin.

“Some minds are not suited, but some seek each other out, almost without knowing it. When the Elders create a bond between two katras, they must endeavour to find two who are well matched.”

Jim looked at him suddenly. “What about T’Pring? Forgive me, but you didn’t seem very compatible.”

“We were children when the bond was formed. We changed.” That bond had begun as a benign presence in the back of his mind, and had become an oppression before it was dissolved. “We would not have made each other happy,” Spock added.

“Could we be bonded?” Jim asked, caressing him. “I mean, if we wanted to?”

With one hand, Spock brushed the hair back from Jim’s face. “That would be a matter for the Vulcan Elders to decide. But I believe it would be possible.”

Jim had shifted his attention lower, stroking Spock’s thighs teasingly. Spock felt his arousal returning and saw Jim smile when he noticed it.

“Those stone women,” Jim said, “I still don’t understand why they were there, or why I saw them as gorgons and you just saw them as statues.”

“There were there to remind me,” Spock said. Reaching out, he pulled their bodies together, running one hand from Jim’s shoulder down his back to the smooth curve of his ass.

“Of what?”

“Of what I could never have.” Spock said it simply, without self-pity. 

Kirk made a sympathetic sound. “I’m sorry, Spock.”

“There is no blame, Jim. Things happened as they did and led us to this moment. It is illogical to wish to change the past.”

“I just wish I had been a better man, more conscious of what I really wanted, who I wanted. Women always liked me. I hardly ever questioned whether or not I should go with the moment.” He pulled back far enough to meet Spock’s eyes. “So many times, I ended up getting entangled, and then I got hurt. Without you there to back me up, maybe I would have learned faster. I was stupid.”

“Jim...”

“I couldn’t see the statues’ faces, so to me they weren’t people Maybe that’s why I saw them as gorgons. They were keeping me away from you—I was keeping me away from you. But you”—he traced Spock’s lips with one finger—“you watched me crash over and over again. It must have hurt.”

“Indeed,” Spock said softly, “it is the most difficult thing I have ever done. And yet it brought us here.” Spock pulled Jim close again, kissing him. After the waiting, the pain, all the barriers had come down. He would never have to shut Jim out again.


End file.
